


Chromatic

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Teen/teen sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'Post Traumatic Magic Loss,' they had called it, and it had been getting progressively worse since the final battle, some nine months previous.</i>
</p>
<p>Minerva finds herself increasingly overwhelmed by grief, loss, and the spectre of the future – until help arrives in an unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chromatic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegildedmagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thegildedmagpie).



> Written for daily_deviant's Kinky Kristmas celebration, for thegildedmagpie. The story came about working with the pairings above, and the prompts, “a crazed spirit of experimentation” and "cool theoretical magic"; 'crazed' might grown from 'crisis', I thought...

"Oh Merlin, what's wrong with me?!" Minerva slammed her wand down on the Headmistress' desk, and the clatter echoed around the dome of what still felt distinctly like someone else's office. Even a Summoning charm seemed to be beyond her, now; the last few attempts at 'Accio' had barely caused the quill on the far sideboard to twitch. Her head began to ache, and panic was rising in her throat - a hot, bitter feeling, like over-brewed coffee, or the deceptively hot, sad embers of what had been a roaring fire.  
  
'Post Traumatic Magic Loss,' they had called it, and it had been getting progressively worse since the final battle, some nine months previous. Her staff were loyal, and covered for her as best they could. Minerva lived in fear that the students should find out - or worse still, their parents; after recent events, and a Headmistress who couldn't put up a simple shield charm would be thought a disgrace.  
  
Minerva was inclined to agree with them. Why  _her?_  Why  _now?_  Everyone had been through a terrible time - the  _children_  had been fighting Voldemort practically single handedly, for the love of all things - yet only she seemed to be succumbing to this... this...  _system failure_. Her nerves were raw and she couldn't sleep. The pile of paperwork looming appeared every day to be larger than the amount she could dispatch, and her lonely eyes seemed old and tired in the mirror after a day of having to face hundreds of pairs of upturned, youthful ones, looking to her on the dais for guidance, and support, and protection.  
  
Minerva bowed her head into frustrated hands, heels scrubbing her brow. "Albus, I can't do this for much longer." She didn't expect him to wake, but he was comforting to speak to, nevertheless. "I've tried everything - drank every potion in the book, meditated on the runes, done those bloody  
exercises daily - five or six times a day, for Godric's sake. I've tried waking with the dawn, studying textbooks, practising charms incessantly... and yet-" Her voice began to quaver, "Well, look at me. I'm a mess! About as magical as this bloody desk." She thumped her hand down, and the clawed feet of said piece of furniture pawed in protest. "Make that, 'less so.'"  
  
Silence answered, punctuated only by a soft chime from the window, and the tick of the astronomical clock on the mantelpiece.  
  
Just when she was about to give up thinking and start marking again, a glinting voice came from the frame. "I have always liked your sense of humour, my Dear. Some people wouldn't notice it at all, I'm sure - but that makes it all the more a joy to spot."  
  
Bristling a little - "Oh, deigned to wake up, have we?" Minerva pitched at the canvas. It was instinctive to pull a sharp response around herself, like a tartan cloak against the chill. The words lacked their accustomed bite, however; she had not the energy. Then, quietly: "I fear, Albus, that there is very little of me left. I really  _have_  tried everything."  
  
There came a long, calm pause. So long, in fact, that Minerva turned around, half expecting that Albus' portrait was once again feigning sleep. She was met, however, by that penetrating blue gaze - clever and animated and so unlike mere paint and canvas. "Then perhaps you should stop trying altogether so hard. Experiment a little; learn to let go. Just think of the colours."  
  
"Colours? What colours?"  
  
-But he was gone again; snoozed determinedly off, and Minerva knew from bitter experience that it would be futile to try to wake him.  
  
\- And then the room began to spin and the pain in her head worsened;  _dizzy, sick, falling...  
  
  
  
  
_ **Red** _  
  
  
A good girl didn't stare; that's what Mother had said: face the front, make polite conversation, don't gape and gander. Yet when faced with the spectacle of her new Housemaster, it was difficult not to. His hair was a fiery mass, his robes so long and sumptuous; the sheen of magic reflected from every weave. And he had such a friendly smile! Gosh, Minerva felt lucky to be here - and particularly lucky she had been sorted into Gryffindor.  
  
Mother had described Hogwarts of course - but no description could live up to the reality; the flotilla of airborne candles, the inky depths of the lake, the history of the tapestries and statues.  
  
It was these things that Professor Dumbledore discoursed upon as he welcomed them in the common room that night - along with spinning an alluring picture of the things they would learn, the friends they would make, the adventures they would have.  
  
Nervous, and in awe, Minerva hung back when the others skipped off to their dorms. "Do you have any advice for me, Professor?" she asked, at once bold and naïve, seeking a greater contact with the man she so immediately admired.  
  
Dumbledore paused, as if considering the small, plaited girl; earnest and serious beyond her years. Then, with a wink: "Experiment and learn, my Dear - that will see you through."  
  
"Yes Professor." She waited again, expecting something else.  
  
"I say! To bed with you, young Miss McGonagall. With an attitude like that, I daresay you'll be one of my greatest assets. But plenty of time for that in the morning, eh?"  
  
"Yes, Professor," she grinned, and bounded up the stairs with a fire in the hearth and a warmth in her heart. This was home; this was safe.  
  
Minerva positioned her teddy bear onto her new big bed and whispered into his soft little ear - they would both be well looked after, here – by Professor Dumbledore.  
  
He had a piece of her heart, already, after all, and her loyalty knew no bounds.  
  
  
  
  
_ **Black** _  
  
  
Tom Riddle was a charismatic boy; clever, handsome, challenging. He was younger than she was, it was true – but he was more poised than all of the seventh-year lads put together – suave without overt manner, seriousness in his soul – which was only heightened when he made a show of play.  
  
It was this seriousness that had appealed to Minerva at first; a bookish girl, keener on all-night philosophy than all-night parties. She wanted someone with whom to hone her wit, test her ideas and engage in lively debate.  
  
And debate they did – not to put too fine a point on things; her cupped her breasts and tweaked her nipple, whispering filthy, delicious things in her ear as his fingers found places inside of her that made her gasp and moan. She had no idea how their interactions had developed thus, but felt powerless to stop it – he was addictive, exhilarating; her first and only tutor in carnal matters, despite her senior years. It seemed that he forever found a new way to make her shiver, and clench, and cry out.  
  
They would meet at the Room of Requirement, armed with History of Magic tomes, and argue the night away, fucking rapidly, then slowly, over and over again, until dawn. Minerva left with an ache between her thighs and a grown-up dryness in her heart; a delicacy, like bitter chocolate - and this only served to make her crave him more.   
  
Sentimentality was not strength, after all. The world is neat and ordered, black and white, when one is seventeen and single-minded – this was bravery; this was the way forward.  
  
It was only later that Minerva realized Tom was far more black than white. “You are ready, my Dear,” he whispered one night, “You've impressed me – for a Gryffindor.” He levitated a curtain and revealed a cage of animals, collected from the castle and the forest – cats, mice, a Grindstone, Bowtruckles – trapped, mewling, distressed. He smiled – calm and eerie – and for the first time she had seen, the smile reached his eyes. “Now, imagine these are muggles, or mudbloods. Just think hat we can do together.” And then, with outstretched wand and a whisper like a lover's caress: “Crucio.”  
  
The sight and sound was appalling; screams, blood, vomit, fur; distended eyeballs and little bones broken like caramel brittle. His eyes were fixed forward, almost trance-like. “We can be powerful, Minerva. All will fear us. You will be so beautiful...”  
  
“STOP!” She finally found her breath, and hit him, hard, across the face. Tom Riddle's wand dropped to the floor in surprise, and Minerva cast a charm on the cage to make the poor, broken creatures sleep – forever.  
  
Tom just stared at her, blankly at first, but then with disappointment, hurt, almost hate. Just for a moment his face was blazing with his heart, the cool facade shattered. It was truly frightening.  
  
Minerva held her ground, staring back. When the cage was quiet, she Vanished it, blood pounding and feeling sick, but determined not to show it.  
  
A long rattling breath, and then he straightened, eyes hard, expression once again composed. “You are bound to me, Minerva,” Tom said, his tone of authority back in place, eyebrows raised in the magnanimity of a second chance.  
  
She eyed him, fighting the magic and the strange attraction that he wove. "No, Tom. I am not." And then, Minerva McGonagall turned coolly on her heel, leaving Tom Riddle standing, mouth slightly agape.  
  
Only a small piece of her was left behind.  
  
  
  
  
_ **Green** _  
  
  
An image haunted her: Severus' poor bleeding corpse on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. She had been the one to find him there; sickly port-wine on parchment, mouth agape in a silent 'o' and eyes full of unresolved problems, despite their blank stare.  
  
Then came the others, disjointed and silent; the Aurors, the civilians, the _children _. Children who had been hers to protect, and she failed so miserably, their little hands in rigor mortis around wands that would never cast again.  
  
Some had taken their dead and mourned; burrowed into the nest of family that remained, huddling and healing, warm and quiet. Minerva had no such family and no such luxury. As the embers cooled and the fallen were buried, her work crystallized about her like a robe of glass: pure and right, but very, very heavy.  
  
Building fresh. Making anew. Embracing the Slytherins - who felt cast out and confused and so very lost. - It was a tough job for any Head teacher, but particularly one who felt that responsibility had come home to roost prematurely. Severus, rest his soul, had been an aberration; she was only seventy-five, for Merlin's sake! Young, for a witch.  
  
Albus was supposed to have been immortal, was he not? Where was the twinkle when she needed it? The wry smile that had the answers and moved other people like pieces on a chessboard? Now she felt its lack acutely – mixed in with the dryness of loss and the choking sensation of crushed hopes, and dreams that never were.  
  
Minerva had not afforded herself the chance to grieve for Albus; not really. It had been too awful, and frightening - and besides, there had been too much to do.  
  
In the meantime, the small, plaited girl within her heart had soaked her teddy bear with tears. She wanted her friend, and confidante and mentor; the closest a wizard had ever felt to family; the man she had loved from afar but never quite understood.  
  
And as her magic waned, his portrait slept on. _"You left me, you prize bastard!" _  
  
She was stoic, though; no-one could know that her soul was in pieces. Minerva gave her everything to the school and it hungrily consumed; prospered. There was very little left.  
  
  
  
_ Red and green and black swished together - joined at once by flashes of blue, pink, ochre, lilac, damson, aquamarine... until the world was one of colour and nothing but. Pulsing; streaming; shimmering. A party; a kaleidoscope.  
  
And then came the sensations: thrill, sadness, elation, woe. A tasting-menu of human feeling, uncorking everything that had been stoppered up, encouraging it to flow...  
  
  
  
  
 **Prism** __  
  
  
Slowly, vaguely, a world formed around Minerva - but not one she knew. There was a meadow - soft grass beneath her bare feet, and sunshine caressing her face. She felt light and free; without a trouble in the world – and somehow a knot in her bosom had unwound, allowing her to breathe in a way that she had forgotten – deep lungfuls of clean air down to her very toes. Her brow didn't hurt, and her stomach didn't cramp with loss. There was no lump of coagulated tears in her throat borne of too much stoicism. It was so wonderful, she could weep and leap for joy.  
  
And more wonderful still, there was - walking toward her and sheathed in light - the most beautiful young woman: butterflies perched on her breasts and across her hips like shimmering underwear - magenta and peacock; iridescent in the light against moonlight-pale, perfect curves.  
  
Minerva knew this lovely creature, she was sure. Yet in this strange, exquisite place, it was difficult to conceive of other locations or times, and it didn't seem important to reach for them or to cross-check names or dates. No, she merely smiled, and the girl smiled back – astral and open, completely at one with the meadow-land and the swirling colours.  
  
In truth, Minerva had never thought of being attracted to a woman. Here, however, she didn't have to think at all; the only course of action was to follow her instinct.  
  
\- And instinct told Minerva that she very badly wanted to touch those delightful curves, to taste the girl's supple mouth, to feel those cool hands upon her own body. She reached out, pressing her hand lightly upon the girl's shoulder, and the butterflies fluttered away in a cloud. The girl's smile broadened, and all at once, Minerva felt that she was being kissed - the softest of mouths upon her own, warm and and gently insistent – and that she was naked, and pressed breast-to-breast, stomach -against-stomach with the divine young woman, heat rising in her loins, and a song in her heart.  
  
She knew not how long they stayed like that – kissing, stroking, hands twined in hair and nails scoring lightly along the curve of a back, little gasps swallowed into each other's mouths and nipples hardening as they rubbed and ached. An urgency was building, however - something that Minerva felt could not be satisfied by caresses and kisses alone – and she tumbled the girl down to the soft grass to press together side by side. Hands wandered and fingers found slick heat, speed increasing, moans getting louder and a tension growing in Minerva's blood that demanded release.  
  
She moved her fingers rapidly, in counterpoint to the way her own body was being played, and the exquisite young woman cried out and pressed up into her touch. - It was perhaps the sight of blonde hair splayed across flushed cheeks, heavenly-blue eyes fluttering closed - that pushed Minerva across the edge of her arousal. A great, gasping cry that might have come from one, or both, of them filled the meadow, and then Minerva was herself with stars, and the ever-after. Nothing had ever felt as excruciatingly beautiful.  
  
And then slowly, floating upon a wisp of air, the colours paled to white, and all was quiet.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
She had collapsed, apparently. They found her in her office some hours later, unconscious, and mumbling strangely.  
  
Opening her eyes against the harsh light, Minerva realized that she was likely in St. Mungo's. Clearly it had been worse than Poppy cared to deal with alone, then.  _Just bloody brilliant._  A strong part of her felt sadly resigned, though; it had likely been coming to this.  
  
Yet, stretching, and trying to focus, Minerva noted that she felt better than she had for rather a long time. There was something fizzing and pulsing in her blood - and for once, it wasn't a headache. Oh, and the  _dreams_. Minerva blushed - and delighted - to recall some of them.  
  
A click of the door admitted a mild-looking Mediwizard of indeterminate years. He could have been one of her students. "I'm glad to see you awake, Professor; I think you gave everyone something of a fright."  
  
Minerva nodded, and thanked him, doing her best to look as awake and un-collapsed as possible. "How long has it been?"  
  
"About twenty-four hours.” A brief pause, while he assessed her, “It's a good job that Miss Lovegood was there to help. Curative Legilimency is a rare gift, you know - few people have the natural empathy required."  
  
She didn't quite trust herself to respond, so Minerva nodded, looking as professional as she could while wearing a hospital gown. Then, a thought: "My wand. Where's my wand?"  
  
The Mediwizard nodded to the bedside table, and Minerva was both relieved and a little fearful to see her trusty ivy-and-unicorn waiting there, expecting a competent witch.  
  
"Well, I'll leave you to rest for a moment. Please don't try anything difficult for a few hours; we don't want a relapse, now do we?"  
  
"Certainly not," Minerva said wryly.  _Cheeky little squirt._  She'd be tempted to take house points if she could.  
  
When the man had gone, Minerva contemplated her wand once more, the familiar dark smoothness in her hand.  
  
"Accio glass," she whispered. A glass of water sailed in a perfect arc across the room, coming to rest on the bedside table.  
  
\- And then, almost as if she, too, had been summoned, Luna Lovegood floated into the room, eyes wide and a peaceful smile upon her lips. Her pretty face was dreamy-open as she matter-of-factly took in the scene. Then, without preamble: "I hope you don't mind, Professor; I've admired you for a very long time. It seemed like the best thing for both of us – even though I was experimenting as I went along. I'm glad that you were too."  
  
Confronted suddenly with her dream in flesh, Minerva found it difficult to know exactly what to say. She did not have to say anything, however; Luna walked around the room and sat calmly on the edge of the bed. She took Minerva's hand in her own smooth, cool one, and said - not as reassurance, but just a plain statement of fact, "It will be alright now."  
  
Seeing herself in those clever, deep, young eyes, Minerva could not help but believe it to be true.


End file.
